


Ay Mi Familia

by imma_redshirt



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: F/M, Gen, almost the whole rivera family actually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-02-09 12:22:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12887775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imma_redshirt/pseuds/imma_redshirt
Summary: For the living, spending time in the Land of the Dead is not without consequences. But considering who Miguel gets to see, he really doesn't care.He's pretty happy, actually.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I dunno, I just felt that I needed some happy-ish Coco fanfiction, so here's an attempt. 
> 
> Also, as a Latina in Texas, I'm more accustomed to Spanglish than the Spanish of Mexico, both the language and customs, so if I make any missteps, please let me know!

Miguel was looking at him.

Héctor was certain of it.

The rest of the living Riveras and their extended family had either left for the night or retreated into the Rivera home after the comida had finished, and only Miguel remained outside, standing alone by the entrance to the ofrenda room.

Well, not _exactly_ alone, if you took into account the spirits that lingered nearby. Felipe and Oscar were at opposite ends of the long table still covered in pan dulce and savory dishes, lamenting over the foods they hadn’t tasted in decades. At the door to the kitchen, Victoria and Rosita watched their living descendants mingle within the house, commenting on the new decor and the new, odd, large, flat television sticking to the wall. Julio and Coco were somewhere inside the house, watching their living daughter as she moved from room to room, as busy as ever. And Héctor and Imelda, standing close to each other in the courtyard, were directly in Miguel’s eyesight, and apparently the sole focus of his attention.

Héctor stepped to the side, and the boy’s eyes followed him, and then he stepped back, and the boy’s eyes still followed, and Héctor _knew_ \--his great-great-grandson could _see him._

“Héctor,” Imelda said slowly, watching Miguel suspiciously. “Can Miguel…?”

“See us?” Héctor answered, taking a wide step to the left and then the right and ducking down then back up, and watching Miguel watching his every movement. “I think--”

“I’ve been waiting _forever_ to talk to you!” Miguel said before Héctor could finish, and with all the energy that a thirteen year old boy could muster, rushed forward. 

Miguel had grown in the year since he’d been trapped in the Land of the Dead, but his grin was the same wide, excited, single-dimple grin that Héctor remembered. He’d also become an amazing song writer in that time, if the song he’d played at the comida was anything to judge by, and Héctor had been _so proud._ He’d followed along, playing on the memory of his beloved guitar, while Imelda glowed with pride and sung in that voice that still made Héctor melt.

Now, as the boy rushed forward in his brilliant red charro outfit, Héctor barely had time to open his arms when Miguel crashed into him with the force of a very small freight train. He stumbled back, just managing not to fall on the ground, and tried to get a good look at the laughing great-great-grandson that somehow managed to give a hug like a boa constrictor. 

“Papá Héctor!” Miguel laughed, and the hug got impossibly tighter.

“You-you can see me?” Héctor said, still shocked.

“Yeah! I can see all of you guys!” With a final squeeze, Miguel released Héctor and threw himself into Imelda’s arms.

Also shocked, but expecting the impact, Imelda stumbled back only one step. “Miguel--”

“I missed you,” Miguel said, before stepping back and wiping quickly at his eyes. “I’ve been waiting _all night_ to talk to you guys. Hey, did you see baby Coco? I showed her all your pictures! I think she knows your names already, and she’s so smart, even though she’s just a baby! She knows which pictures to look at when I--”

“Miguel,” Imelda snapped, raising her palm, and stopping Miguel in his tracks. Rather than looking chastised, Miguel only grinned again, and waited patiently for Imelda to continue.

With that stern tone that Héctor had fallen in love with many times over, Imelda asked very slowly, “What, is going, _on_? Did you take something from an ofrenda again? Héctor, quick, get me a petal--”

“I didn’t take anything,” Miguel said as Héctor began to search the ground for wayward petals, “And I don’t know what’s going on. I just know that when the church bell rang, and spirits started walking around, I could just see everyone--but I’m not in the Land of the Dead! Mamá and Papá and everyone could still see me, and I’m not passing through anyone like a ghost or anything. I just…” He shrugged. “I can just see you.”

“Well, something is wrong,” Imelda said. “And we are going to fix this. That clerk had better have an explanation--”

“Mamá Coco!” Miguel gasped, and without waiting for Imelda to finish, moved forward with his arms wide open to envelop Coco, who had just walked up behind them, with a hug and a sniffle as he buried his face in her shoulder.

“Mamá Coco,” he said again, voice quivering, “I… I miss you.”

“Ay, mijo,” Coco said, and held him gently, “I miss you too. But look how you’ve grown! So handsome, mijito, que chulo.”

Miguel laughed. “Gracias, Mamá Coco. Did you see Abuelita’s new sewing machine? She’s making a bunch of baby clothes for Baby Coco.”

“Sí, es muy hermoso,” Coco said, and listened as Miguel began to describe in great detail the material he’d found at the market, which he’d bought with his own allowance _especially_ for Baby Coco’s first charro outfit, with some gold buttons and thread for embroidery. 

Hector stood back, his worries put on hold for just a moment, content to watch two of his beloved family members interact. Only a year ago, he'd been convinced he would never see his daughter again. A year ago, he'd been turned away by the love of his life every time he tried to speak to her. A year ago, he'd thought he'd died because of a bad batch of _chorizo._

And now he stood back in the Land of the Living, side by side with his wife, watching his daughter listen patiently to the excited ramblings of his great-great-grandson, his memory kept alive, and his photo on the family ofrenda. 

Also, nobody teased him about choking on chorizo anymore, which was a definite plus.

Life--or, death, anyway--was good. For now.

“Oh no,” Rosita said, walking up beside Imelda. “Did it happen again?”

“We’re not sure,” Imelda answered. She was still watching Miguel as if he was a design for a new shoe that would just not come together. 

“He said he’s seen us since we got here,” Héctor said, rubbing his chin, forcing himself back on track. “But, he’s been talking and dancing with his living family, too. If they can see him, but _he_ can see _us_ …”

Slinging his guitar onto his back (Miguel had done the same earlier,) he studied the boy that had ensured his memory live on, and the harder he squinted, the more he saw it--a faint, thin, shimmering glow of vibrant orange along Miguel’s outline, the same glowing orange of the cempasuchitl petals that marked their path to the land of the living. If he'd still had a heart, it would have skipped a beat. This could not be good.

“He’s glowing,” Héctor said, and leaned closer to Miguel, poking his side and making the living boy giggle. “Imelda, do you see it?”

“Sí,” Imelda said, frustrated. “Something is _not right_ , and we need to fix this before it gets worse.”

"You mean go back to the Land of the Dead?" Miguel said, bouncing in place with that never ending energy. "Cool! Let me tell Mamá and Papá I'm going to meet them at the cemetery--be right back!"

"He's too happy about this," Imelda said, voice flat as Miguel ran to the nearest window to call out to his parents.

And with that, eight Rivera ancestors on a mission began to march down the streets of Santa Cecilia to the nearby cemetery, with one living, breathing, very talkative relative in tow.

“I wish you guys had been there! I was playing in front of the whole school, and you could tell Marco was super jealous, but it’s ok, because afterwards I let him see your guitar Papá Héctor and now he wants to learn how to play--OH! And a couple of months ago, we were doing sprints around the field, and I beat _Gloria Martinez_. She’s the fastest kid in my grade, and she’s one of my best friends, so she wasn’t even mad! Look, I ran like this, it’s way faster than how I used to run--”

“Oh, like this?” Héctor said, and copied Miguel’s crouched running style, skull bouncing erratically, and sending Miguel into a fit of laughter that caught the attention of confused passerby.

“Wow, this _is_ faster--”

“Héctor!” Imelda snapped, her tone ruined only by the twitch of her jaw that hinted at a laugh. “Stop that! And Miguel, you’re going to make everyone think you’re--”

“Un poco loco?” Miguel said, and Héctor burst out laughing, which made Miguel laugh, which had the rest of the Riveras chuckling, and Imelda heaved a frustrated sigh. 

“Ay, niños…”

Laughing at the expense of the Rivera matriarch, the family drew closer to the candle lit cemetery, and the bridge between the Living and the Dead.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter fought me. A lot. But it’s finally done! And before going on, I’d like to say: holy cheeses, THANK YOU EVERYONE for all the kind words and kudos! I didn’t expect that at all, and I’m really glad y’all enjoyed chapter one! Like I said, this one fought me quite a bit--it did _not_ want to be written. I hope it lives up to everyone’s expectations. If not, well, thanks for reading anyway!

“Hey, what did you guys think about my song?” Miguel asked in a loud whisper. Imelda had finally gotten him to quiet his voice down to avoid attracting attention from the Living not long after leaving the Rivera home. Even though most of the people in Santa Cecilia knew Miguel pretty well, catching him chatting excitedly to thin air would still have been odd enough to be worrying. 

Getting the young Rivera to at _least_ whisper was a smart move, because the family had neared the center of town, where people still milled about after the annual Dia de los Muertos song competition. Families and friends traveling to and from the cemetery passed by, carrying baskets of offerings and candles for their deceased loved ones, along with the spectral images of Dead relatives following the cempasuchitl paths to their ofrendas. By the gazebo, a group of mariachis had gathered, chatting about the competition and sharing compliments about their performances.

Héctor still remembered playing in the square when he’d been a young boy. It had looked different then, of course, and there had never been a competition on the Day of the Dead. But there had always been an audience, people going about their business while Héctor played an old guitar Padre Vallejo had let him use if he agreed to play at Sunday mass in return. 

Earlier, as he and Imelda and Coco had walked through the square hand in hand, he’d had a chance to note all the differences the years had brought since he’d last seen the place. The people of Santa Cecilia had taken good care of their home, but signs of age were still evident in the buildings and the cobbled walkways. But even when Héctor had been alive, Santa Cecilia had felt old and familiar, a town built long before he’d ever existed. He’d loved his life there. One of the first songs he’d written had been about his home, and he remembered humming it to himself that last day he’d walked through the square.

Thinking of his final day there as a living man still left an dull ache in his chest--it had been the day he’d left Santa Cecilia on his ill fated musical tour of Mexico--but it was nowhere as painful as it had been in those early years of his death. 

It didn’t help anything to think about that. He was here now with his family, and that was what mattered.

Lanterns and strings of lights had been strung up along the buildings and around the gazebo, offering an extra glow alongside the bright paths of cempasuchitl petals. Coco had told him that the square had been dubbed Mariachi Square, and it had been a popular tourist destination for… various reasons, one of which was a giant statue that Héctor was content to ignore (even though the angry messages left at the statue’s feet might have been a kick to look at.) Rosita had sighed as they passed through the square on their way to the family home, commenting on her never ending love of the beauty of the lights against the night. Now, as they passed through with the addition of one of their youngest living relatives, Héctor could definitely understand why she always took a moment to stop and appreciate the sight.

“I had a feeling you wrote that one,” Héctor said in response to Miguel’s question, nudging him with his elbow as they passed under a canopy of lights stretched between two buildings. The boy was leading them along the edges of the square, away from the greatest concentration of people, so he could whisper without worrying Imelda.

Miguel grinned at him, and Héctor almost told him that figuring out just how incredible his great-great-grandson was as a songwriter had brought him to tears--but he didn’t need to know that. Nobody needed to know that, except for Imelda, who already knew because she had caught him wiping his face on his sleeve.

“It was pretty great, huh,” Miguel said, still grinning,

“It was _amazing,_ Miguelito!” Rosita chirped in response to the boy’s question, squeezing Miguel’s shoulders excitedly. 

“Very well done,” Victoria said, walking alongside Rosita. “Quite impressive for a boy your age, in fact.”

Felipe and Oscar trotted up beside him and, grinning faces showing their glee, said in quick succession:

“It was very catchy, Miguel!”

“It’s going to be stuck in my head forever, but I’m not complaining!”

Miguel, suddenly bashful, looked up with awe when Imelda placed a hand on his shoulder, smiled, and said, “It was _beautiful,_ Miguel.”

“How did you come up with that song, mijo?” Julio asked. He and Coco were walking side by side, arms linked, which was fine with Héctor --he’d held Coco’s hand all the way to their home, and he was going to hold it again as they crossed the bridge before sunrise.

Still bashful, Miguel shrugged. “I don’t know, I just, I guess I thought about my family. Of Mamá and Papá and baby Coco, Abuelita, everyone! And you guys,” he added, pausing to look at them all. “Especially after… after you sent me home. I kept thinking about you all. Especially…”

He paused, and looked up at Héctor . “I thought I was too late. But then Mamá Coco remembered you, and I just _knew_ everything was alright. And I don’t know, I just thought, you know, all our love and… you know…” He covered his face, which had turned a shade of red. “I don’t know!”

Suddenly the boy who had talked non-stop was to embarrassed to continue. Coco enveloped him in a hug, laughing softly, and the rest of the family “awww”ed and chuckled, but Héctor felt he understood Miguelito’s dilema better than the rest of them. Sometimes, things were just easier to say in a song.

“Hey,” Héctor said, as Coco released her great-grandson. Héctor ruffled Miguel’s hair as the boy lowered his hands, laughing lightly. “I didn’t expect anything less of you, chamaco. And hey, it’s good to know that amazing songwriting talent stayed in the family, eh?”

Miguel laughed and shoved Héctor hand off him. “And it got better, too!”

Héctor said tsked and said, feigning insult, “Perdon, niño, pero that is debatable--”

“Yes, yes, you’re both amazing writers,” Imelda said impatiently. She took Miguel by the shoulders and began to walk again, the rest of the family automatically following behind. “Miguel, we are all very grateful and proud of you, but we _need_ to get you to that clerk. I don’t know if it is my imagination, but your glow is growing stronger.”

She was right. The thin line of orange surrounding Miguel, which had been almost invisible half an hour ago, was now brighter, and easier to see. It was still thin enough that Héctor wouldn’t have noticed if Imelda hadn’t pointed it out, but the fact that it was growing was concerning.

“Correle, Miguel,” Imelda said, pushing Miguel ahead, but before the young Rivera could move any faster, someone called out to him.

“Heey, it’s Miguelito!” Called a man, who marched right up to Miguel and slapped a friendly hand against his shoulder, arm passing right through an insulted Imelda’s shoulder.

“Hola, Gabriel,” Miguel said, “But, uh, sorry, I have to--”

“C’mon, mijo, the rest of the guys want to talk to you about your performance,” Gabriel said, and waved over the mariachis who had been by the gazebo. 

“But--”

“Real quick, kid!”

“Can’t he see we’re on a tight schedule?” Julio grouched, glaring at Gabriel as Miguel shrugged discreetly.

“Calm down, amor, we just won’t let this take too long,” Coco said, just as Felipe stepped up to the living man and said, “Why, if I was still alive, you’d be flat on the ground!” and waving his fists like an angry boxer in the fight of his career.

“Hola, Miguel!” A woman said as the group crowded around Miguel. She tipped her emerald green sombrero at him, smiling. “None of us got to talk to you after the competition! I just wanted to let you know how _amazing_ you were up there.”

“You deserved that win, muchacho,” said another woman.

“Can’t believe we’re just seeing all this talent _now,_ ” said a man with a shined trumpet in his hands. “What took you so long, kid?”

“Maybe,” Gabriel said, before Miguel, who was now grinning, could talk. “It was because no one would lend him a guitar? _I_ , on the other hand, lent him one when no one else would!”

Gabriel grinned proudly until the others began laughing.

“And you took a chanclita to the face because of it!” Someone said, and Gabriel made an annoyed noise, waving his hand dismissively before firing back with an insult.

But the words flew right over Héctor’s head as he stared at Miguel, his grin widening as he asked, “You won the competition?”

Trying not to draw the attention of the Living, Miguel grinned at his family, who were all watching him with growing glee, and nodded.

The deceased Riveras erupted in cheers, clapping Miguel on the back. Oscar forgot himself and ruffled Miguel’s hair, but the mariachis were all too occupied with trading friendly insults and jibes to notice the boy’s hair moving without any wind blowing. 

The boy himself looked as if he didn’t know how to handle all the praise he was receiving all at once. Héctor thought the kid’s cheeks would be sore for a week with all the grinning he was doing.

Resisting the urge to pull his great-great-grandson into a hug, Héctor caught sight of a Dead stranger standing nearby. The man was watching the happy group with a scowl, arms crossed. Guy could probably use some happy news.

“Hey,” Héctor said, nodding his head at Miguel proudly. “See that kid? That’s my great-great-grandson! He won the song competition, and it was his first year playing! Not bad, eh?”

The man snorted, and Héctor cheerful facade fell. This wasn’t going to be a pleasant interaction.

“You think he won with talent?” The man said, and Héctor was taken back by the angry words. “That kid won because _everyone_ knows about you and de la Cruz, Rivera. He didn’t win because he was good. He’s just the next big thing.”

“Those mariachis are telling a different story,” Héctor said, scowling.

“He didn’t deserve to win,” the man said. He waved a hand at the mariachi with the trumpet. “That’s _my_ great-grandson. His band should have won! They won last year, but now with this kid and your story, they _lost!_ ”

"You're heading into dangerous territory, amigo," Hector said. "This is my family you're talking about."

"Si, y que?" The man said, meeting Hector's glare with a challenging look. 

The whole Rivera family was listening, now. Coco was frowning, one hand tight on Julio’s forearm. Rosita and the twins were scowling. Victoria was first to get over her shock, anger showing on her face, and she stepped forward to stand by Héctor . “Señor, please use a different tone when speaking to my grandfather. You should show some respect.”

The man tsked. Héctor , realizing the anger that was growing between his family and the stranger, took it upon himself to diffuse the situation. It had been his fault, after all. “Ok ok, mira, now’s not the time for arguing. It’s Dia de Muertos! I’m sorry I said anything, ok? Look, our living family is getting along fine!” He waved at Miguel and the man’s great-grandson, who was cheerfully showing Miguel the silver embroidery along the edge of his deep blue sombrero. “If they can get along, then so can we, si?”

“I don’t want to get along with you,” the man snapped. “All you Riveras are attention seekers, using the thing with de la Cruz to get ahead in the Land of the Dead! And now your living kid here is using it to get ahead without any--”

Héctor ’s anger had risen so high he was surprised there wasn’t steam shooting from every orifice in his skull. Glaring, he began to roll up his sleeves, but before he could roll the left sleeve any further than his elbow, Imelda came striding forward, dark boot in one hand.

_THWACK_

The man stumbled back, head spinning, as Imelda calmly put her boot back on. 

“That’s for insulting my family,,” she said coldly, as the man steadied his skull and looked at her in horror. “And you should be ashamed! Speaking ill of the Living and the Dead, on Dia de los Muertos! And speaking ill of a young boy-- _my_ great-great-grandson.”

She stepped forward, and the man held his ground, but there was growing terror in his eyes. 

“You will apologize to my familia, _now,_ and then go about your business.” She crossed her arms, waiting. When the man only scowled and looked away, she leaned forward. “ _Well?_ ”

The man clenched his jaw. With a short _hmph,_ Imelda reached down as if to grab her boot again, and the man stammered, “Fine, fine! I--”

The Rivera family waited. Héctor crossed his arms, standing at Imelda’s side, phantom heart throbbing because he’d just fallen for Imelda all over again.  
“I’m sorry,” the man finally mumbled, and refused to meet anyone’s eyes.

Imelda snorted. “Thank you. And you should know that I think very highly of your great-grandson, who apparently thinks very highly of _my_ family. You could learn some manners from him, señor.”

The man grumbled under his breath but didn’t say anything further, walking away to follow his great-grandson, who was whistling as he used his sleeve to shine the mouthpiece of his trumpet, completely oblivious to the exchange that had happened nearby.

It was then that Héctor noticed the mariachis had left Miguel, walking back to the gazebo to gather their equipment. And Miguel, alone again, was standing at the edge of the circle of Riveras, starring with absolute adoration at Imelda.

“I love you guys,” he said, grinning, as Imelda proudly held her head a little higher than usual.

“And we love you,” she said matter-of-factly. “You should always know that, Miguel. Your family would do anything for you.”

“Including,” Héctor said, grabbing Miguel’s shoulder. “Getting you to help, chamaco. We’ve been here too long. Ándale, Riveras! To the bridge!”

With a still grinning Miguel leading the pack, Héctor tried not to focus on the orange glow surrounding the boy, or how it had grown so much as to completely cover his fingers as he kept his hand on Miguel’s shoulder, grip tight.

The bridge to the Land of the Dead had never felt farther away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I started writing this, I just knew I wanted Imelda to smack someone with her boot, so that's why that happened. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After two months, chapter three is finally here! I'm really sorry about the wait, I had written myself into a corner and it took an all night writing session to write myself out of that corner (for now at least!) 
> 
> (Also, I actually wrote up a story outline. Who knew those things actually work???)
> 
> Again, I would like to say THANK YOU SO MUCH OMG for all the kudos and comments! I really appreciate it, and I hope y'all enjoy this next chapter!
> 
> If I've made any mistakes at all--with my awful Spanglish/Tex-Mex, typos, or anything to do with Dia de Muertos--please let me know!

Fortunately, it didn’t take long to reach the cemetery. 

_Un_ fortunately, it also didn’t take long for things to just get worse.

“So, where’s the bridge?” 

All but one of the Riveras froze where they stood, and the one who _didn’t_ freeze was Miguel himself, who continued to walk forward with a spring in his step. In his traje de charro, he was like a swatch of red against the grey stone wall surrounding the cemetery. After passing through the cemetery entrance, the family had walked along the same wall to avoid the living and dead who moved amongst the graves, until they reached the farthest end where the dead moved from one realm to the other.

The cemetery was alight with the soft glow of candles that had been arranged on and around graves, and the view was rich with colors of flowers and fresh, edible offerings. But though the cemetery was aglow with flickering candles, the brightest light came from the cempasúchil bridge sloping over the cemetery wall, touching down in the same spot where it had always been for generations.

The same bridge that Miguel apparently couldn’t see.

“It was here last time, wasn’t it?” The living Rivera boy said, quietly so as not to attract attention. He came to a stop when he noticed his family had stopped following him. “Does it move every year?”

“Miguel,” Héctor said slowly, moving forward a step as the rest of the family exchanged worried glances. “Can’t you see it?”

Standing just a few feet away from the very edge of the luminescent bridge, Miguel frowned. “Uh, no? Is it… is it here?”

Uncertainty had finally found its way into Miguel’s voice as he glanced around, searching in vain for something that glowed brilliantly nearby. He moved forward quickly, and before Héctor could stop him with a worried “Miguel, espere!” he walked right into the bridge--and passed through it as if it wasn’t there at all.

The deceased Riveras gasped, just as Miguel turned on his heel and walked back towards them, brow furrowed beneath his sombrero. 

At that moment, a pair of skeletons in colorful skirts and blouses stepped off the bridge and onto the Land of the Living, passing through the invisible barrier that separated the realms and taking on the familiar glowing, orange outline. As soon as they moved through the barrier, their sudden appearance caught Miguel’s eye, and he jumped in surprise. His jaw dropped as the realization of where the bridge was finally hit him. He turned to gape at the others.

“I can’t see the bridge!” He gasped. 

Eyes wide and hands clenched before him, he stepped closer to his family, and they gathered around him as if their presence alone could protect him from whatever was happening, close enough to the wall where shadows would hide Miguel’s presence. There was a subconscious, collective effort to remain calm, but the deceased Riveras were at as much of a loss as Miguel was. By now, his glowing outline was visible even without squinting, and though it wasn’t as strong as the glow surrounding the deceased, it was definitely troubling. And if that hadn’t been already been bad enough, now he couldn’t see the bridge. 

What did it mean? _Did_ it mean anything? Was his inability to see the giant glowing bridge something to be celebrated? Or was it another sign that the night had brought more than just an odd dilemma? 

Sensing an oncoming panic attack--whether from Miguel or from himself, Héctor wasn’t sure--Héctor placed a calming hand on Miguel’s shoulder and shared a look with Imelda.

Imelda had placed a hand over her mouth in shock, but when her great-great-grandson looked to her with a flash of fear in his eyes, Héctor saw her take a deep, calming breath, and he knew exactly what she was thinking--now was not the time for panic. 

It was time for action.

“You’re going to be ok, mijo,” Héctor said, just as Imelda snapper her fingers and the Riveras stood at attention.

“Miguel can’t cross the bridge,” she said, “But his glow is getting stronger, and he can still see us. We _have_ to get him help before this gets even _worse!_ ”

“Maybe we can carry him over?” Julio suggested.

“No,” Imelda said with a shake of her head. “What if he falls? We can’t risk it.”

“Besides,” Victoria said, eyeing Miguel thoughtfully. “There must be a reason he can’t see the bridge. What if taking him to the Land of the Dead is the _wrong_ thing to do?”

The others were silent for a moment, thinking on Victoria’s words. Héctor rubbed at his chin, brow furrowed, and watched as Miguel leaned into Coco’s side for comfort. 

Last time, it was a curse that had given Miguel the ability to cross the bridge into the Land of the Dead. Now, as far as any of them knew, Miguel wasn’t cursed, and he was definitely alive. There was no _reason_ for him to cross over. 

“He’s not going _anywhere_ until we know what’s wrong,” Imelda said decisively. 

“But how are we going to do that?” Rosita asked.

“The clerk from the Bureau of Family Grievances,” Imelda said. “He helped us last time, and he’s going to help us again. And since we can’t take Miguel to him, we’ll bring _him_ to _Miguel._ ”

Nobody asked “can we even do that?” because no one questioned Imelda Rivera when she spoke with that tone, and if it was the only option available to help their family, then they were going to see it through. 

Héctor felt a strong surge of pride sweep through him as the others all nodded, looking to the head of their family for orders.

“The lines at the station will be long,” Imelda said, the familiar shine of steely determination in her brown eyes. “And he won’t be waiting for us this time. But we are going in there and he is going to leave with us. Felipe and Héctor, you will stay with Miguel here. The others and I will go to the station, find that clerk, and find whatever files or reports or _whatever_ we need to help Miguel.”

Héctor saluted, tapping his heels together, prompting a surprised laugh from Miguel. “Si, mi capitan!”

“And you _will_ stay here,” Imelda said, pointing with one authoritative finger at the ground where Héctor and Miguel stood. “No wandering off, no horse play! Felipe, if _anything_ happens or changes, you run across the bridge and find us right away, entendido?”

This time Felipe saluted with Héctor, and Miguel was finally grinning again. Imelda huffed before reaching down to cup Miguel’s face in a firm but gentle gesture. 

“Miguel,” she said, “We are going to help you, and you are going to be ok.”

“I know,” Miguel said, smiling at her with growing confidence. “I trust you guys.”

With a smile of her own, Imelda pulled him into a hug before releasing him and striding towards the cempasúchil bridge with purpose. Coco pressed a kiss to his forehead, squeezing his shoulders briefly, and followed, hand in hand with Julio. Rosita and Victoria each gave him quick hugs as they walked by, and Oscar ruffled his hair before nodding at Felipe. As Miguel moved closer to Héctor, the twins gave each other two fist bumps and winks in farewell.

Miguel leaned back against the wall with a sigh and removed his sombrero, watching silently as six of his deceased relatives stepped onto the bridge and disappeared from his sight. 

Héctor leaned against the wall next to him, somber. Eyeing Miguel’s slumped shoulders and generally morose attitude, he nudged him with his elbow and smiled.

“Hey, chin up, mijo. You’re going to be fine. Imelda’ll carry that guy over on her shoulder like a sack of papas if that’s what it’s going to take.”

Miguel huffed a laugh, but didn’t meet Héctor’s eyes. “I know. It’s just…”

“Just what?”

Fiddling with the brim of his sombrero, Miguel looked up at Héctor with a shrug. “I don’t know, I just kinda really wanted to go back.” 

“To the Land of the Dead?” Felipe asked, joining the other two Riveras and leaning against the wall. “What for?”

“To see everything again,” Miguel said. “After I came back last time, I started to forget things. I had to keep reminding myself that everything really did happen, because sometimes if felt like a really weird dream. I didn’t forget you guys,” he added hastily, “Just little things, like the way to Chicharron’s house, or how cool it felt to ride on the trolley, or--or the names of the band members there were in the Chachalacos--”

Héctor and Felipe gasped.

“You don’t remember Eliana’s name?” Héctor asked, feigning horror.

“Or Chuy or Efrain?” Felipe added.

“Or Alma?”

“Ignacio?”

“Carmen?”

“George?

“Victor--”

“Hey, I’m serious!” Miguel said with a frown. “I felt _bad._ Cause, if I started to forget those things, what if--”

“Hey,” Héctor said, cutting him off with a stern great-great-grandfatherly look. “Mijo, you’re stressing about things that happened a _year_ ago. Little things! That happened on what was probably the craziest, most stressful night of your life! How can you expect yourself to remember all these little details, eh?”

“He’s right,” Felipe said. “I have a lot of non-stressful days, and I still manage to forget which room is my room and which room is Oscar’s sometimes.”

“See?” Héctor gripped Miguel’s shoulder and shook him lightly until Miguel laughed. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“I know, I know,” Miguel said. “I just… I don’t know, I also wanted to see where you guys live, and did anyone get Chicharron’s guitar, and do you guys have any really good panaderias? Cause the one here is the _best_ , and I wanted to know if the owner’s abuela made one over there too--”

“Well,” Héctor said, sliding down to sit on the grass and signaling the others to do the same. “We probably have a few minutes until the others get back, enough time to answer all your questions. Ask away, Miguelito!”

With a grin, Miguel sat, pulling his guitar over on to his lap, and began a list of questions. Héctor and Felipe answered to the best of their abilities, but as the questions went on, Héctor kept a close eye on Miguel’s face, very aware that the boy continued to glance over where he knew the bridge was, squinting as if trying to see something just barely visible.

Héctor was ready to send Felipe running if Miguel showed any other signs of being able to see the bridge. The night had already given them enough surprises, and the sudden appearance of the bridge in Miguel’s sight as the glow around him strengthened could possibly mean things were getting worse. 

With the command for Felipe ready on his tongue, Héctor listened to and answered Miguel’s questions, and tried to keep his great-great-grandson cheerful for as long as possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had actually planned a lot more to happen in this chapter, but it was getting lengthy, so I've split it in two. I won't make any promises because I am Queen of Procrastination, but chapter four should be up soon since some of it is already written. Thanks for reading!


End file.
